Shelf Monkey (11 page)

“This isn’t going to be a government conspiracy thing, is it, Thomas?” Aubrey wondered. “Not that I have anything against that sort of obsession, I’m just wondering how we got on this topic.”

“No, follow me on this. This is why people cannot summon up the gumption to challenge themselves in their reading habits. Literature is a virus, see. For whatever reason, parental insistence, an attractive school librarian, no TV, whatever, we were inoculated at a young age against literature. Sure, it made us all cry at first, having to concentrate our fragile minds, but after a while the body adapted. My mom made me read
Hop on Pop
, and now I can read Pynchon without flinching. Others, however, the inoculation didn’t take, or they never got the shot and now they’re too old to survive the initial needle, and consequently they’ve remained allergic to literature, they have no built-up immunity. Sure, they
can still take the low-grade fever viruses okay, they can survive a Mary Higgins Clark with no serious after-effects, and maybe they even like the thrill of pushing their tolerance by reading a Crichton or a Dan Brown, something that makes them feel like they’re smart. But dare to put a Pynchon or a Helprin or your Foster Wallace there under their noses and
wham!
Anaphylactic shock. The nervous system can’t take it and shuts down, and the victim is paralyzed, and must now suffer a
Who’s the Boss?
marathon on TBS to recharge their batteries.” I broke off my rant as the others seriously considered this.

“So that’s why the customers run from us,” Danae said. “It’s not from annoyance at our hyper selling techniques and eagerness to please, it’s a visceral, instinctual reaction to what we represent. We’re carriers of the plague.”

“I like it,” Warren said. “Makes perfect sense. Typhoid Warren, that’s me.”

“While it may make some sense logically,” Aubrey offered, “the analogy may serve to turn people off the art form further. ‘Literature is a virus’ is hardly the slogan you’d want to promote too actively, it might ensure that parents never introduce their children to the written word. Think of how it would look on a T-shirt, it’d be a relations disaster. We can’t change the world, much as we’d like to. All we can do is try and keep the good books out of the sales racks, try to keep the authors afloat.”

“It makes me cry, seeing good books get remaindered,” Danae said. “Kind of like watching a friend fail miserably at something.”

We looked at one another across the expanse of the table, a vague unhappiness permeating the spaces between us. I felt the sudden urge to link hands, form a circle, start chanting to ward off the encroaching darkness. Instinctively, I fingered the meds in my pocket.

Danae broke the silence. “Oh, since we’re on the subject, guys, I’ve got a perfect montag for the next meeting.”

“Oh, yeah, me too,” gushed Warren, suddenly perked up. “It’s a sweet ’tag, when’s the next meet?”

“Shut up, the both of you,” whispered Aubrey viciously. “Oh, man, sorry,” said Warren, glancing at me. “Wasn’t thinking.”

“Sorry, I forgot, sorry,” Danae said. She blushed as Aubrey
scowled at her, lowering her head, a red stain appearing from her neck to hairline. A good colour on her. The three of them busied themselves with their food.

“What?” I asked. I was on the receiving end of a very cold front. “What’s up?”

“Nothing, friend,” said Aubrey. “Nothing at all. Just . . . stuff between us, that’s all. Right, guys?” Warren grunted into the chip bag. Danae pensively contemplated her yogurt cup.

“What stuff?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light. Aubrey studied a particularly vexing paragraph. Danae fished Patrick Ness’s
The Crash of Hennington
from her purse. Warren continued inhaling my bag of Old Dutch Bar-B-Q. I waited under an oppressive passive-aggressive umbrella of silence, feeling left out. “Well,” I started. Danae jumped at the noise. “Much as I’d love to continue this atmosphere of rejection, I guess I’ll go check the shelves, see if anything strikes my fancy.”

“What do you read, friend?” asked Aubrey, his face submerged in Wallace’s prose.

“Whatever strikes a nerve,” I said testily. I was ridiculously offended, somehow, that these strangers had secrets they didn’t want to share with me. “I’ll read whatever I choose. If, of course, that’s all right with the three of you.” I stalked out, immersing myself in the territory of words outside.

After work ended for the day, having been instructed by Danae on how to search for unavailable books and deal with difficult customers, i.e. keep agreeing with them until they’ve worn themselves out, and exhausted from the unending barrage of best-forgotten consumer questions (a highlight: “Where are the books where animals solve crimes?”) I fled into the night, an Auster wedged under my arm. I passed Aubrey on the way out, saw him nodding approvingly at my reading material, and decided to play the small-minded victim and snub him.

I walked home, curled up in my papasan, cracked open
The Book of Illusions
, and did my best to forget the day, forget the past, forget that this was undoubtedly the first day of the rest of a very long, dull, disappointing life. I should have quit then, but the lure of more free books brought me back the next day.

I think I’ll leave on a cliffhanger. My fingers are tired, and
Detective Daimler is undoubtedly itching to get this letter to the shrinks down at Quantico to glean some fresh insights into my psychosis.

Yours truly,

Thomas

DOCUMENT INSERT: Verbatim FBI tape recorder transcript. Speaking: FBI Detective Amanda Daimler (primary), RCMP Detective Mel George,
Doctor Barbara Carella, Munroe Purvis.

DAIMLER: Mr. Purvis, can you hear me? Can he hear me?

CARELLA: I’m sorry, he comes and goes, I told you.

DAIMLER: Can you give him something? Wake him up?

CARELLA: I’m afraid he’s very critical at the moment. I couldn’t risk it. I think you should come back. I’ll call if there’s any change in his condition.

DAIMLER: Yes, I guess — wait, his eyes are open.Mr. Purvis, can you hear me? Nod if you can hear me. Mr. Purvis, my name is Detective Daimler, I’m an agent with the FBI. Detective George with the RCMP is also present. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if you’re up to it.

PURVIS: Hurts.

DAIMLER: Doc?

CARELLA: I’m sorry, Mr. Purvis, I cannot increase the dosage. This is a bad idea, Detective, he’s in no condition —

DAIMLER: No, we need to do this now. Mr. Purvis, can you answer a few questions?

PURVIS: Yes.

DAIMLER: Good. We’ll go slow, okay? Can you tell me anything about what happened to you?

PURVIS: Where am I?

DAIMLER: You’re in Winnipeg, sir, St. Boniface

General Hospital.

PURVIS: What happened?

DAIMLER: Has no one told him anything?

CARELLA: No, I thought it best you tell him.I’ve had my hands full with the press.

DAIMLER: Right, keep them out of here, all right? We’re going to put an officer outside to keep people out. Can you do that, Mel?

GEORGE: No problem.

DAIMLER: Mr. Purvis, you’ve been in a coma for two weeks, do you remember anything?

PURVIS: Weeks?

DAIMLER: Yes, two weeks. After your program, your show in Winnipeg, do you remember what happened?

PURVIS: Yes.

DAIMLER: Afterward, your bodyguard, Mr., uh,

Daly, he said he took you straight to your hotel room. Is this correct?

PURVIS: Yes.

DAIMLER: You were last seen going into your room at approximately eleven-twenty or thereabouts. Is this accurate?

PURVIS: Yes.

DAIMLER: Mr. Daly says you were gone from the room when he checked in on you the next morning. Where were you, Sir?

PURVIS: Where?

DAIMLER: Mr. Purvis, you were discovered on the sidewalk in front of this hospital at approximately eight o’clock in the morning, the day after your show. We’re checking to see if there are tapes, can you tell us what happened?

PURVIS: Hospital?

DAILMER: Yes, sir, the hospital. Can you tell me where you were? Who did this to you?

PURVIS: Oh, that bitch.

DAILMER: What bitch, Sir? Sir? Mr. Munroe, who is the bitch? Sir? Doc?

CARELLA: He’s out again. I’m sorry, I should never have allowed this. He needs to be kept stable, please, I need you to leave now.

DAIMLER: Damn it, we need —

CARELLA: This man is in tremendous pain,Detective. He needs rest. I’m sorry, but you need to go. I will call you when he’s able.

DAIMLER: No need, I’m not leaving. I’ll be sitting in the corner until he wakes up.

Dear Eric (and all others, hello to you as well),

Well, if I wasn’t before, I am now officially screwed. Had to hock the computer for survival money. No more popping out of hiding for brief moments to see my shadow. I weighed the options, and food seemed slightly more important than my laptop, now gathering dust on some pawnbroker’s shelf. I did my best to delete its contents, but hey, who knows? Could be some useful tidbits left on the hard drive. No doubt I’ve neglected to delete a folder detailing my exact whereabouts, or worse, my weird predilection for Italian horror cinema. If you find it, fellas, more power to you. The hunt is on!

The television networks say it’s only a matter of time until my inevitable capture. I gather that officials now know my location, and even now, federalés are surrounding the building (I’m at a public terminal, in full view — no spiderholes for me), slowly advancing on my position. I can feel the dot of heat from the laser sighting on the back of my neck.

Well, I guess I should just turn around and surrender. Oops, just my imagination. Still got some time left.

You never appreciate how time is a factor in your life until you’re faced with the end of it.

Luckily, most Internet cafés are equipped with fairly dim lighting schemes, the better to play
Everquest
with. Add in the sickening aquamarine glow from the LCD screen, and my features are effectively masked from any gamer who might accidentally raise his head up from the personal adventures of Man_Slayer592 to take an mmorpg breather. Not that that ever happens. Those dudes are focused!

The weeks passed relatively quickly at
READ
, my psyche expeditiously adapting to the meagre requirements of indiscriminating patrons. The layout of the store became second nature, and I rapidly unearthed the hiding spots every employee took full advantage of. The travel section behind the maps. Language arts.
Philosophy. Computers. Actually, the computer section was invariably full, but these customers were so well-versed in their choice of books they tended to completely ignore store workers, as you’d ignore a lamp or unsightly damp spot on the rug of a neighbour’s home.

The mystifying rift between my co-workers and myself was now somewhat patched, although they were still guarded in their conversation. Other employees, less discerning in their choice of friends and more willing to freely chat, passed along rumours of Aubrey’s unholy command of all things printed.

“I swear,” said Marcus, a pimply twenty-something currently completing his Masters in folklore and mythology, “I swear, the guy’s on a whole other planet. I once asked him, ‘What’s the name of that book with the guy in the red jacket?’ He gave me three different books in less than a minute. I think he’s the Matrix.”

The only way I can think of to adequately describe Aubrey Fehr is by example. Have you ever watched a nature documentary? One of those National Geographic
cinema verité
things. There is always, sandwiched between an imposing baritone voice and a tremendously stirring soundtrack, that inevitable moment when whatever subject it is the filmmakers have chosen — lion, hyena, tiger shark, tiger prawn, tsetse fly — that subject reveals and unleashes its inner nature, revising the drama from G-rated filmstrip infotainment into
PG
-13–approved bloodletting: the moment of pure animal instinct, where claws are revealed, teeth bared, poison unleashed, and unholy carnage ensues, all the while the narrator intoning, “The kill is quick and merciless. The circle of life is complete. The harp seal cub has learned a valuable lesson; in this bleak, unforgiving world, it is survival of the fittest.”

Wait, that’s wrong, scratch that. I’m describing Aubrey like a wild animal, ready to go off at any minute. I’m sure that’s the portion of this narrative that will be highlighted and studied for years to come. Academics will point to this vague description and say ah, so that’s how it was. Aubrey was a savage beast, the violence was inevitable to his nature. Criminal psychologists will add this to their list of behavioural indicators. Dr. Newhire, your thoughts? Well, Dr. Phil . . .

What I mean is, in those documentaries, amidst the blood and
gore on display solely for ratings purposes, rarely if ever does anyone question the motives of the subject. The lion does what comes naturally, hyenas scavenge because they are scavengers, and sharks kill bathers because they look like seals, not because of some reflexive critical response to Spielberg. Motivation doesn’t exist. They are because they are. Aubrey, to a tee.

Aubrey is the only person I’ve ever met who was because he was, who acted because that is who he was. You’d never look at him and think, there’s a guy who’s trying too hard, or, who does he think he is, looking that way? Aubrey was authentic. I could describe his manner as Zen-like, but that would presuppose some expertise on Zen beliefs and teachings that I simply don’t have. Descartes would have loved him. Aubrey was beyond the concept of proving existence through thought. Yes, Aubrey thought, therefore, Aubrey was, but he took it further — Aubrey was; therefore, Aubrey was. He read; therefore, he read. He existed; therefore, he existed. He was pure.

Aubrey wasn’t a vegetarian, which was probably the most surprising thing about him. A thirty-something dreadlocked Caucasian earth-loving tree-hugging Birkenstock-wearing string-bean who eats meat? Odd. But rest assured, if Aubrey were a vegetarian, no one would question him on it. There’d be none of that apologetic sense of guilt, no vague assertions of a belief in animal rights or loathing of plant life. If Aubrey were a vegetarian, it would be because he
was
a vegetarian. You’d never consider the possibility that he could ever be something else.